


Then Bow Your Head in the House of God

by Cannebady



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aside from these dorks love each other so much, Aziraphale appreciates all of God's gifts, Based on the song Moderation by Florence + the Machine, Crowley dances when no one is watching, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, He sure does theydies and gentlethems, I mean I guess there's slightly a plot, Love Confessions, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fill, Shameless Smut, Specifically very pretty demons in sunglasses, Tumblr Prompt, and does he use the hips the good lord gave him?, but barely, it's so good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:08:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26927902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannebady/pseuds/Cannebady
Summary: Crowley works off a little nervous energy before he has Aziraphale over for dinner after the Little Apocalypse that Couldn't. When Aziraphale arrives slightly early he gets a show he didn't expect but is very, very here for.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 179





	Then Bow Your Head in the House of God

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt fill for tumbler user dashicra. 
> 
> Thanks for the prompt! As stated in the tags, the fic is inspired by Florence + the Machine's "Moderation".

It's all still so new. If you'd asked him a few years ago if there was anything on God's green Earth that he hadn't seen, he'd have given you a cheeky grin and confidently responded _"Not a chance in the nine circles"_. But Crowley is, for once, happily surprised that he gets to not know all the answers. He gets to experience a life free from assignments and supervision; he gets to really _live_ , in the human sense, for the first time in his many, many millennia of existence and he's so extremely grateful for it.

The other enormous plus that the world post-almost-apocalypse has going for it is that Aziraphale's palpable anxiety has reduced from something akin to a constant foghorn to barely the sound of a newborn kitten learning it's own voice, which has lead the way for him to also experience life free from celestial purpose. The luckiest bit, and it _is_ luck (he's the luckiest bastard there is, so far as he's concerned), is that the angel's first choice upon earning his freedom was to spend as much of it as possible with Crowley. They've barely gone two days without seeing each other in nearly three months.

It's been absolutely blissful; lovely brunches, drawn out lunches, and even a few dinners that bordered on outright romantic. They've even held hands a few times. It's been enough to convince Crowley that maybe the torch he's carried for over 6,000 years isn't burning alone. Perhaps there's a twin flame in the angel. Perhaps there's room for this now (finally, _finally)_.

Aziraphale, despite his attestations that he prefers the practical, is an absolute, unrepentant sap and loves stories of star-crossed lovers murmuring sweet nothings in the scant space between lips, gifts of flowers and chocolates, and grand gestures; the whole shebang. It just so happens that Crowley wants to give him all of that and more. Hell, Crowley wants to give him _everything_. For the rest of eternity, Crowley is going to make sure that the former Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, the unparalleled best of the holy host, and the unequivocal love of his life gets every damned (or divine, honestly. He's not sure how he'd pull it off, but he'd find a way. He always does.) thing he could want.

By some machination of fate or chaos, it seems like the thing Aziraphale wants most is Crowley. And what a thing that is.

All of this is to say that he finally asked Aziraphale to come over for dinner. Before he Fell, Crowley had been a creator. He'd pressed together particles of firmament to create starstuff, and later stars themselves, for God's lovely humans to admire. He lost that ability when he'd been cast out, but he still liked the process of making something out of nothing. And there's no thing that Aziraphale loves more than the culinary delights humans have created. In this way, Crowley can serve his purpose; create and give.

When he'd asked, Aziraphale had fixed those changeable seafoam eyes on him and responded with the softest, sweetest, _"Yes, dearest, I'd love to."_ that Crowley had ever heard and it'd damn near melted him to his core. _Dearest_. He'd never been that before. Now it was all he wanted to be.

The day has arrived and Crowley is _prepared_. He's keeping it simple, a lovely truffle pasta will take the main stage, with a fresh green salad with olive oil and lemon to start, a gorgeous Malbec he's been saving for a special occasion, and a chocolate orange torte for dessert. Some of the angel's favorite flavors and, not-so-coincidentally, some of Crowley's specialties. He's been wanting this for some time now.

The only negative is that he's nearly vibrating out of his skin with anxiety and anticipation and there's still nearly an hour before Aziraphale would be arriving. Deciding to try to calm some of his anxiety with a shower, he grabs his phone, pulls up Spotify and shuffles a playlist, strips and gets under the hot spray. He can certainly miracle himself clean whenever he needs to, but there's something very luxurious about running hot water; he's loved it since it's invention.

After a perfunctory wash he steps out, snaps his fingers to dry himself and slips on his black silk robe. Throwing his phone on the bed, he expects that the music will start to come through his stereo system so it obliges just as the song changes.

A few quick, percussive beats stream through the room and Crowley smiles. He really does like this song.

_Want me to love you in moderation._

It should be noted that during the 1980's, Crowley spent a significant amount of time in America. While living in New York he'd combed through the club scene for wholesale temptations and had ended up meeting a wonderful group of dancers who taught him a thing or two. If there happened to be a red-haired, black bespectacled being wrapping his legs around a pole and shaking his hips for all they were worth in the East Village from about 1984 to1986, it's neither here nor there.

He may have been cut off from his divine purpose, but he could still shake what his mother gave him, if you know what he means. Before long he's forgotten about picking out the perfect outfit for his dinner date and is reprising his best moves from that era to the beat (and honestly singing along but his plants know better than to call him out on it).

_Then bow your head in the house of God_   
_And little girl, who do you think you are?_

Before he knows it he's gripping the side of his throne for leverage as he rolls his hips in time thinking about ways in which he may, very enthusiastically, bow his head for a certain angel.

By the end of the song, he's smiling like a loon, his robe has fallen off of one slim shoulder completely and his slightly overgrown hair has gone to mess. He turns to go back to his bedroom to turn the music off (and get dressed), when he realizes that he's very much _not alone_ and his performance had an unintended audience.

The slight flush of exertion gracing his cheeks goes from a honeyed flush to fire-engine red in seconds when he sees Aziraphale standing stock still at the front of his office, staring at him in disbelief with his mouth gaping open.

_Hell preserve me_ he thinks as he races to find any single solitary explanation for _all of that_.

"Christ, angel, you surprised me. I didn't hear you come in." He gives himself a commendation for how steady his voice sounds.

Aziraphale says precisely nothing and continues to stare at Crowley with an unreadable expression and unending intensity.

"It's a fool's errand to ask, but is there any way that you didn't see any of that at all?" He sighs it out. This is _not_ how this evening was supposed to go.

Aziraphale takes a step closer to him and his eyes move from Crowley's bright red face to his exposed shoulder. Oh, right. He hadn't actually gotten dressed. Fan _fucking_ tastic.

When Aziraphale fails to say anything else, he immediately starts backpedaling. "Angel, I'm sorry, I just got caught up. I, well, I understand if you'd like to reschedule. I'm-, er, going to get dressed then. Make yourself at home or see yourself out. I understand either way." He immediately tries to move past the angel, towards his bedroom, where he can have a nervous breakdown in peace, but is stopped in his tracks by Aziraphale's hand on his bare shoulder.

Time stops, either because Crowley's heart did too or because the feeling of Aziraphale's hand on his skin is actually fracturing the fabric of reality, but yellow meets blue and it's like looking in a mirror, seeing his love and lust and desire and want reflected back at him. He'd thought it was there, but now there's no escaping it, and he doesn't want to.

"Dear-", the angel starts (and _fuck_ his voice is rough and low and that's making certain parts of Crowley's anatomy less likely to be confined to his flimsy robe, " _Dearest._ Do you want me to leave? If you do, I will. But know that I'd rather stay. And I'd rather you stay. Right here."

With the last word he pulls Crowley in closer to him, chest to chest, just mere centimeters away from the dead giveaway about just _how much_ Crowley wants to be _right here_.

" _Yes._ Please Aziraphale, if you're saying yes, I'm saying yes too." It's said with his forehead pressed to Aziraphale's and his breath tickling his cheeks and their arms tentatively wrapping around each other.

"Thank _God",_ Aziraphale says and chuckles at Crowley's groan at the mention of the Almighty, "I've wanted you for so long. I've loved you for so long."

Crowley's heart stops again, but then it swells, barely contained in his chest. Aziraphale loves him. Aziraphale _loves him_. He's _loved._

"Oh angel, you love me?" He's smiling again, it probably looks foreign on his features but he can't stop. _He's loved._

The angel nods and his demon responds, "I love you too, I've been gone on you since we met on the garden wall. Most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

He takes back every eye roll he's ever made at someone crying from happiness as a stray tear tracks down his cheek. He'd challenge anyone to stay composed when an angel of the lord confesses his love for you.

Black-lacquered fingernails trace up angelic arms, stroke an angelic throat, and wind themselves into cloudfluff hair as he presses himself completely into Aziraphale.

The angel groans (and _fuck, fuckfuckfuck_ he wants to hear that again) and grabs Crowley at his hips, dragging him in and against before saying, "Dearest, can I kiss you? I would very much like to kiss you."

"Fuck, _please_ angel," is as far as he gets before their lips meet and there are fireworks going off behind his eyes. He makes a sound that, if taken to task he'd deny was a whimper (but very much was), and throws himself into the kiss. Aziraphale's lips are as soft as they'd always looked and he kisses Crowley like he's trying to drink the air from his lungs, as if he too knows what it's like to burn for something so close, but so far out of reach.

Well, not anymore. They're almost as close as they can be and it still isn't enough. Aziraphale must agree because his fingers start to inch backwards to pull Crowley in by his arse and grind his erection into his hip and Crowley answers with a moan and by pushing the angel backward until he collides with one of Crowley's slate walls. Aziraphale pays him back by tailing biting kisses down his neck and _sucking_ when he reaches the junction of Crowley's collarbone. He grabs those wild curls and pulls the angels mouth back to his and slotting his thigh in between Aziraphale's to give him more leverage.

It's so similar to where they were at the old convent (scarily close to what Crowley's imagination had provided him with later, so much so that he wonders if they were on the same page in that moment) with Crowley's fingers moving to grip beige lapels and try to press himself even more into the angel.

The noises that Aziraphale is making, little huffs when Crowley rolls his hips just right, moans Crowley sips from his mouth, and groans that send sparks down Crowley's spine to settle in his cock are driving him crazy. He's just about to snap and change the venue to his very large, very lovely bed, when he's the recipient of a show of angelic strength and finds their positions reversed.

Aziraphale raises one hand from Crowley's hip to cup his face (the demon bestows a kiss to an angelic wrist in retaliation), licks his lips, and drags his fingers down Crowley's neck, not tearing his eyes from the way his hand looks against that lightly freckled skin.

"Crowley, dearest, I'd very much like to taste you, if you're amenable." The request is bizarrely formal, and blazing hot, and so, so _Aziraphale_ , that Crowley damn near experiences a disruption in corporeal function before he lets out an embarrassingly wanton moan and feels his cock dribble a pulse of precome.

"Angel, if you say things like that this is going to be over very fast." He didn't want to say that it probably would be regardless. It'd be years since Crowley participated in any team activities in the bedroom and the reality of having Aziraphale actually touch him (dear _lord_ he wanted to put his _mouth_ on him - how many centuries had he dreamed about that, _Christ)_ was already sending him careening towards the edge.

"Shall I take that as a 'yes'?" the angel purrs, actually _purrs,_ because he's a complete, unmitigated _bastard_ and Crowley loves him with every single piece of his black, damned heart.

"Fuck, _yes_ , angel. Yes to anything, to everything." A smile graces the angel's face and, with a sense of satisfaction not dissimilar to the tasting menu at The Ritz, the angel drops to his knees right then and there, liberates Crowley from his robe (which was barely hanging on as it was), and runs his hands reverently down Crowley's chest to rest again on the crest of his hips. But this time, it's skin on skin an Crowley's legs start trembling.

"These, Crowley, these _bloody things_ have kept me in half a state of distraction for centuries. When I walked in here, _God Crowley_ , the way you _move_. I wanted to have you right here," he looks up with an expression showing his years of experience doing Crowley's temptations, "And now I think I will."

Without further preamble, the angel nuzzles the trail of hair low on Crowley's stomach, presses kisses at the junction of hip and thigh, first on one side, then the other, before moving lower to suck a bruise right at the top of his inner thigh. Crowley should give up on breathing at this point, if the angel is so dead set on taking it away, but he can't think though the hands and the words ( _hewantsmehewantsmehewantsme)_ , and now the _mouth_ that's driving the tremble in his legs up through his spine. He's panting and shaking and Aziraphale hasn't even properly touched him yet.

" _Angel,"_ he breathes, bringing his hands to bury themselves in his hair and staring at the way he looks, completely clothed on his knees before Crowley's naked form, "Please, I-, just if you want, _please_ , I want you so bad." 

At the request, Aziraphale lets his tongue peek out to dip into the slit and take his first taste of Crowley's arousal from it's source. He hums and moans and, _fuck,_ dinners out are going to be pure torture from here on out but _who the hell cares_ because Aziraphale has wrapped his lips around the head of a his cock and he loses the ability to think about anything at all. His mouth is hot and soft and wet and he's sucking Crowley like he loves it, like he's spent countless hours thinking about exactly this and is not going to settle for anything less than perfection.

And that's what it is, perfection. In a hysterical moment, Crowley thinks he can actually feel the love radiating off of Aziraphale, can feel it settling into his bones and his chest and filling in the empty spaces and healing over wounds, and that just makes the physical sensation of the angel sucking his brain out through his cock just that much more potent.

When Aziraphale swallows him down to the root, settling Crowley in his throat, he thinks that this just might be it. He tugs at the angel's hair in warning and Aziraphale moans around him. Suddenly, he _needs_ to be kissing Aziraphale. 

"Angel, up-, please, up here, please kiss me." He begs and pulls and Aziraphale stands and pushes him back against the wall with his whole body before meeting him, open mouthed and wanting, with a searing kiss that pours over Crowley in waves.

He remembers that he has hands and that, if he gets his shit together for one whole second, he'll be able to feel Aziraphale's _skin_ on his. He should check, but he's far beyond that so he chooses the path of asking for forgiveness later and snaps. With a ripple of demonic energy, Aziraphale's clothes are folded on the throne and they're skin to skin.

Instead of being put out, Aziraphale _loves it_. Leans into Crowley even harder, grabs his hair and tugs for a better angle, and _oh god yes, pull harder._ Crowley has the wherewithal to run his hands along Aziraphale's sides, grab those plush hips, and in a moment of inspiration snaps again to coat his hand in warm oil, before getting his first proper feel of Aziraphale's chosen effort. He is not disappointed. While only slightly above average in length, the angel's cock is enviably thick, blood hot, and so, _so hard_ , dripping a stead stream of precome from the slit. 

The desperate noise Aziraphale makes has Crowley on the edge again instantaneously and he wraps his hand (thank _fuck_ for his long fingers) around them both, letting the oil and both of their arousal slick the way, as they thrust against each other. One of Aziraphale's hands tangle with Crowley's around them and then they're both panting and groaning, and fucking into the channel of their combined fist.

Shockingly, Aziraphale comes first. He breaks the kiss to bite down on Crowley's collarbone, groans deep and guttural, and comes shaking all over them both. As soon as those teeth close on him and he feels Aziraphale's cock twitch against his own, he loses his own battle with his self control and comes trembling and panting, leaning his forehead against Aziraphale's temple as he makes a few final abortive thrusts while he rides out his orgasm.

He feels Aziraphale's free hand come around his shoulders to pull him into an embrace. He snaps to clean them both and wraps both arms around _his_ angel and lets himself cling for all he's worth.

After several minutes, he brings his hand to Aziraphale's cheek and looks him in the eyes. Lets him see the depth of his love for the first time, unguarded. He's met by the same come back at him from the angel's lovely features.

"Let's go-, I have a bed. We can rest a bit before dinner." It's spoken softly and intimately and it's clear immediately that Aziraphale loves it.

"Yes, let's." With a final show of strength, Crowley finds himself yelping as he's lifted up into a bloody _bridal carry_ as his angel brings him to his bedroom and lays him down on his own silk sheets.

As they lay tangled together, Aziraphale's head pillowed on Crowley's chest and a lush thigh thrown over Crowley's hip, he can't help but note thanks to Florence Welch as he agrees, _I've never made it with moderation._


End file.
